


Saviour of the Waking World

by scarletSumac



Category: Warframe
Genre: Angst, Canon Relationships, Canonical Character Death, Character Death, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Pre-Canon, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-17
Updated: 2020-02-07
Packaged: 2020-03-06 18:49:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18856975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scarletSumac/pseuds/scarletSumac
Summary: A long time ago, an empire fell.Torn apart by children scorned.But before the children, before the war, there lived a woman named Margulis.(Warning: Spoilers for all quests from Apostasy onwards)





	1. Genesis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is set during the Orokin Empire, and centres around the actual Margulis, not Lotus. It's a speculative fiction of sorts, of what they would be like when they were around.

“State your name for the Council.” 

You take a deep breath.

 _Just speak clearly_. Bron had told you, _Don’t worry, they will hear you._

You think they will hear your voice waver, but you speak, clear as day.

“Archimedian Margulis.” you say.

You look up at the Executors. The Seven, projected up into the dome like godly spectres. You kneel on the judgement disc, your yellow dress bright against the dull metal. 

You’ve been here once before. When they were bequeathing you your duty. 

Back then the Dax escorted you, ushered you into the room, bowed as you stepped past them. But now, they’ve prodded at you with their guns. Forced you to kneel like a criminal.

And now, perhaps you are one. 

Tuvul’s visage looms large before you, peering at you as if you were a specimen, a speck in a petri dish. He speaks. “Seeing the importance of this case in concurrence with the war effort, your trial has been extended into a series of sessions.” 

Dardanos speaks next. “You have done well for us so far, Archimedian. We have not forgotten.”

Now Medea. “Yes, we have much praise for your efforts.” she pauses, blinking her distaste at you with her stern, golden eyes, through the projection they seem fishlike. “But your crimes against the Empire must be judged as well.”

You glance at the projection in the corner, a familiar face, impassive and cold. But he must be, for how could dear Ballas judge appropriately, if he showed that he loved you at all?

====================

There was a time you were not blind. 

You did not have to wear this device over your eyes then, and back then, perhaps, things looked different.

 _No, not different_ , you think, things did not look different. You just perceived differently, seeing through eyes that were actually yours.

One of your favourite memories, in fact, is the sight of Mars. A young thing then, you held your mother’s hand, stepping off the transport that brought you to your new home. You recall stepping off the ramp, sunlight glaring into your eyes, and you squinted, shielding your face from the sudden light.

When you blinked the brightness out of your eyes, you looked around, at a marble city unfolding before you, tall white and gold spires and shining holograms, dancing lights and twisting silver trees. A familiar Orokin welcome into the compound. You looked up at your mother, smiling proudly, though lines of fatigue were beginning to show on her face. 

She would go for an anti-aging treatment soon, you remember thinking. She wouldn’t have liked looking so haggard. 

A smaller transport came to greet you, rectangular platform with rounded corners, silver and gold swirls inlaid into its surface, and a Klyte in his deep greens bowing low as he approached. 

“Well met, Lady, I am Khon, and I’ve been assigned to your household, I will help manage your home affairs and manage the other Klytes for you.”

A house Klyte! You didn’t have those on Venus. Father must have gotten quite a good new position then, servants like these were not commonly offered to just any Sectarus.

“Excellent. Take us to our home. And quickly, please. My husband is awaiting us.” your mother said. She was using her proper voice, the one she uses with anyone who isn’t like you.

The transport dipped a little, hovering a few inches off the ground, low enough for your little self to step on. 

You remember being floated through the streets, past others in glittering yellow, even some in pearly white. This was a special compound, you were told. _Just for Sectarus._ Your mother said on the ship, smiling at you, tucking a loose lock behind your ear. _We’ll be very at home._

Home, she said. 

_But home was back on Venus._ You told her, in the compound over there. Your friends from school were there, and the nice parks that looked like what Earth parks looked like. 

Your mother sighed then, still smiling, hands folded neatly in her lap, and she said, “Such is the Empire. We expand our glory, we move along with it. We expanded to Mars a very long time ago but we managed to _terraform_ more of it with our new _technologies._ ” 

She put the emphasis on the words again. You knew what they meant, you looked them up, you thought proudly. That didn’t mean that you liked her doing the word emphasis though. 

You still hold her hand as you hover towards your new abode, but a wave of self-consciousness makes your cheeks flush a little. Maybe from the memory, maybe from the people staring at you. 

Maybe you’re old enough to not need your hand held. 

You slip from her grasp and she does not follow, simply glances down to make sure you don’t fall off the transport. 

“Khon,” you say, wandering the three steps towards the pilot disc where he stands. “Do you know what our house looks like?”

He smiles down at you. “It’s very beautiful. There are three floors and it has a library we stocked with volumes you and your parents might like.” 

“Is there a garden?” 

“Of course.” he smiles. “As per your mother’s request, we’ve brought in a ginkgo tree.” he turns to her as he says this. “Under our climate control dome, it’s taken nicely, despite the Martian soil.”

She nods. More out of courtesy than acknowledgement.

“Are there flowers? Like the ones in our old home?” 

“We’ve planted a series of different flora, yes.” he turns to your mother again. “They’ll be pruned and uh, refreshed, with the seasons.” 

The transport glides to a halt before a gate, round and white and perfectly symmetrical. The gold bands in the centre twisting into a series of concentric circles, and the gate swirls open with a whoosh. 

Home, she said. And home it became. 

====================

They’ve at least afforded you some basic respect for someone of your standing. 

You’ve been placed under house arrest instead of imprisoned with the others, which is perhaps, your only solace. 

Your home, your work. This is where you’ve spent countless hours over the past few years. Working and toiling to keep your sons and daughters safe. 

You wandered about the house, smaller than your childhood homes, but even still the space seems lonely. 

You’d gotten used to the comfort of another, when Ballas would visit, smiling his smile, pulling you into him when the doors shut behind him. 

You missed how he’d sometimes present you gifts, hidden in the folds of his robe or under his shoulder cape. Sometimes a bouquet of flowers you know he had to source offworld. Sometimes he brought you sweets, confections of glossy blues and greens that emitted pink smoke when popped open. 

You thought it frivolous at first, but quickly it became endearing.

An empty box from his most recent visit still lay open on your kitchen countertop. A sweet wine and a sweeter memory, procured from a vineyard on Earth, one of the last remaining that did it the old way. You had finished it that night, though you both promised not to. 

You put the box away. No need to remember such things now. 

You think of heading out on the balcony, but as you approach the doors, you can see the helms of the Dax standing just below. Distorted like a mirage, but still there.

You sigh. 

Only a week into your sentence and already restless. 

This was going to be a long trial. 

====================

The memories that come, come without warning. But they come slowly, and you see their approach, much like waves on a shore. But just like waves on a shore, you brace yourself for the cold that swirls around your legs, as if one misstep in these tides will drag you away.

You remember your childhood home again. 

You slipped into your new life on Mars much more easily, more readily than you’d hoped.

Quickly, new friends were made, old ones forgotten, left on a nearby planet. 

There was a boy who would become your playmate, while his mother visited yours. 

You recall them sitting on the veranda, drinking tea that was too bitter for you and chatting as they played komi. You still remember how their dresses swept the floor as they walked. 

You looked forward to those visits, most of the time your friendships were confined to the school, shouting and squealing as you played during break and whispered in the classrooms. 

This was different, but a good different. 

His name was Muska. A boy with tawny skin and golden eyes, his hair braided and styled simply, a single gold hair stick to hold up his bun. 

He was your age, and your height, but he always tiptoed a little when you were comparing. 

You were tasked with entertaining him, as the host ought to do. But your toys and holovids quickly bored him, and after the first two visits, he requested something else. 

“Let’s go look for bugs.” he said one day, pointing towards the garden. 

You could see the silhouettes of your mothers through the sheer curtains, a peek of a skirt as a breeze passed by. And a twinkling laugh, like wind chimes. 

“We shouldn’t disturb them.” you replied nervously. “I can show you some vitruvians instead? They are very informati-”

“That’s dull. Let’s go find something squirmy. Or are you scared?” he sneered, folding his arms dramatically across his chest. 

You felt an annoyed flush creeping into your cheeks, your brows furrowed.

“Fine.” you said, as nonchalantly as you could, strutting past, “let’s go then.”

Your garden was a fine place. Full of life, seasonal flowers bloomed all year round. A little path snaked through the garden, white tiled and edged in silver, meandering towards the fountain, then the bridge over the stream. The path was lined with smaller flowers, pale pink with yellow centres, cloned and modified for their delicate size and sweet smell. 

The garden was lined with low bushes, all dotted with blossoms in yellow and white, this season’s trend. And all around a high white wall topped with gold and grey tiles cut a glimmering line against the pale sky. 

The path stretched ahead, welcoming you. And you headed towards it, passing your mothers, stepping down onto the soft orange-brown grass. 

Your mother would have wrinkled her nose, she would make you scrub your feet clean later. 

Muska darted ahead, you could hear his feet against the white stone as he passed. 

“Come on!” he called to you, a few feet ahead on the path. 

You followed, wandering a few steps behind him as he looked about, sometimes ducking his head to peer under the bushes. 

Slowly, slowly, you follow him down the garden path, at some point he found a stick, at another, he spotted a glossy green butterfly, wings shading blue as it fluttered, dancing just out of his grasp.

It doesn’t take long to reach the end, as the path tapers off, white stones vanishing under a blanket of golden yellow. 

Your mother requested that the leaves not be swept too often here. She liked the patch of sunshine that seemed to fall eternally beneath the ginkgo tree. 

And you liked it too. The soft shush of leaves under your feet, the smell of autumn that seemed to linger here. Gilded light shone through the leaves. You stood on the edge of the path, looking down, you saw leaves edged in brown, long stems outstretched. 

Looking up, you see the tree ahead, deep brown trunk, almost black, grasping the air, its golden fronds blotting out the sky, shading the sun. 

“Margulis!” you hear, “Come look!”

You wander towards Muska, squatting near the side of the tree, just before the twisted roots. He was poking something with his stick. 

You come closer, squinting at the strange pink thing. 

“Muska, don’t do that! It’s helpless.” you gasp. 

“It must have fallen out.” 

“Do you think we can put it back?” you ask, looking up again, searching the branches for any sign of a nest. 

“Why? Let’s have some fun with it first.” he says. 

“It’s a creature.” you reply pointedly. “I should go call the Klyte in charge of the garden, he’ll know what to do.”

“You’re no fun.” he shoots back. “If you don’t want to play with it, then go. I’ll do what I want.”

He pokes at the baby bird again, and it squirms, trying to shuffle away.

“Muska! Stop it!” you almost shout. 

“I just want to play with it! You can put it back once I’m done!”

“No! I’m- I’m going to get the Klyte.”

“Don’t be such a baby!” he says, prodding it, flipping it over. 

“Stop it! You’re going to hurt it!”

He ignores you, laughing. 

“Stop it.” you say again, in your proper voice. 

He growls, flipping the bird over again and shoving it against the roots.

“Muska! I said stop.”

He shoves it again, harder this time. 

“Muska, are you listening to me? I said stop it!”

He grinned cruelly, pinning the bird against the nearby root. 

“Stop!” you actually shout, this time.

He pushes his stick harder. 

And the bird goes limp.

“Muska- What have you done?” you can feel tears trailing down your cheeks. 

He pokes at the body a little more, then huffs, getting up. 

“It’s just a bird! My stars, why are you such a baby?” 

“You killed it.” you whimper, fists scrunched so hard you can feel your nails digging crescents into your palms. “I told you to stop.”

“It’s just a bird.” he scorns, and tosses the stick aside. “You’re no fun.” 

He shoves you aside as he storms past. 

You sniffle, your sight distorted with tears. You told him, you _told_ him! He didn’t listen. You told him.

You scrub at your eyes a little, and as you pull your hands away you see an eyelash has come off. You kneel sobbing beside the dead bird, its eyes shut, beak open in a half screech. 

You told him to stop. You told him and he didn’t listen. 

And now a bird lies broken below the tree. You think you hear some chirping somewhere above you, but you don’t dare to look.

You wipe your tears again, resolve to sniffle one last- two last times. And you look around, you can see the stick he held, a little off from you in the leaves, and you go to pick it up. 

And carefully, you push the bird into a little dip in the leaves, right between two roots, and using your hands, you shovel leaves over it, covering the body in a golden shroud. 

Your mother asks what happened as you return. She heard the shouting. And you tell her, as she washes your face and wipes the tears away. As she puts you to bed that night she kisses your forehead. 

The next time your mother invites her friend over, they sit on the veranda, sipping tea too bitter for you and playing komi. 

And Muska doesn’t come back.

====================

You gasp at that memory. 

In the days and weeks that came after, new playmates came by, sometimes you’d play, sometimes you’d read, sometimes you’d watch holovids.

And soon enough, you forgot. 

( _How could you forget?_ )

It’s the dead of night now. Outside your window, the moons shine bright. 

It’s late, or at least late enough that you should be sleeping. Your trial is set for dawn tomorrow, and you need to be alert. Yet sleep escapes you. 

You lie in bed, blind again. 

Your mask is too sensitive to light for you to rest comfortably. It lies on your bedside table, just a grasp away. 

You picture your room, a spacious place, white and perfect gold, like all Orokin things were, a little silver bonsai stood on a pedestal beside your door. On its left, a mirror hangs, and beside that a wardrobe and a built in dressing table. 

Opposite is your study table, oddly devoid of papers. Though your writing implements and the home cephalon disc still remain. 

You had a storage unit next to it, with an automatic search-and-retrieve function. It was mostly useless now, since most of your work was confiscated already. 

_Archimedian, are you still awake?_

“Yes, Paldis. I’m still awake.”

Your home cephalon was a gift from the Council. She was meant as a personal archive tool. But over the years you’ve had her, she became almost a friend. 

If cephalons could be considered such. 

_Perhaps some soothing music would help you rest better?_

“No, no need, I’ll sleep soon. But thank you for your concern Paldis.”

 _Rest well, Archimedian. I will wake you later as instructed._

You sigh. 

Sleep. You should try to sleep.

====================


	2. Upward Movement

Your youth passed quickly on Mars.

A childhood of happiness, mostly.

And then proper schooling started, where the lessons were more than just the basics, and you realised your mediocrity.

A scene materialises in your head. Walls of frosted glass, blast-proof, specially made. White marble slabs, tabletops, elegant golden-legged stools with pearly seats. The hum of machinery idling along the sides of the room. 

The school laboratory. 

With an internal climate set just cool enough that you would not sweat, but every time you entered for lessons, the tables would always send a chill up your arms as you leaned forward. 

There was a year that you were placed next to your lab partner, a girl called Haldane. A pretty one, born to two Archimedians, with hair like spun gold and eyes like sapphires, already with ocular implants to make them glow lilac beneath her long lashes. 

“Margulis, pass me the beaker.” she said one day.

“No, silly, not that beaker.” 

And you remember the haughtiness of her voice. Mocking you just enough that you’d feel the prickle down the back of your neck, but not enough to warrant snapping back.

Haldane was the school’s golden girl. Clever, pretty, swarmed with suitors every day. She was the first to forge the glowing frog for class. 

You were given a jellyfish gene that day, and a common frog, and each your own miniature geneforge. The model provided was far too primitive by your standards now, but then, back then it was the peak of genetic innovation. 

You had successfully extracted a sample of the frog’s DNA, programmed it just right, and you looked down at your petri dish with satisfaction. 

And then you glanced up to look at the timer and realised that half your class was already activating their forges. You started, glancing about almost frantically. 

You had more than enough time left, but how were they so much faster? 

You hear a giggle, and you look to your right and see Haldane. Just sitting there, prim and proper, just smugly smirking at you just out the corner of your eye. Her frog already glowing a dim blue, already back in its tank waking up from the sedation. 

You redouble your efforts, extracting enough of the DNA and polymerase mixture, you reach into the geneforge, and a membrane of green materialises around your gloved hand as you do. The frog still lay sedated inside, good. 

You load your syringe into the side, picking up the frog and positioning it correctly under the laser guide. 

But your hands shake.

 _Nerves_ , you tell yourself. _Enough of that._

But you can practically feel Haldane’s eyes on the side of your face. 

“You have twenty more minutes.” Your lecturer calls out, more bored than stern at the front of the lab. 

More than enough time, but you need to position it right. 

You inhale, exhale, take a few deep breaths, and you push and hold the injector. 

The microneedle comes down, missing the spot by half a millimetre, you could feel your hand shift in that moment and you kick yourself internally. 

That should still be within the right zone but every frog was a little different.

The needle retracts, and slowly you put the frog back down, you remove your hand, tap the program code into the touchpad. 

And you wait. 

The geneforge would irradiate the frog, a special kind of radiation, you knew, tuned just so the splice would take. 

And you wait. 

The timer ticks down on the geneforge, and you glance up at the clock in the lab again to check. Fifteen more minutes.

Three beeps sound out, it is done. 

Moment of truth, you wait a second or two and you reach into the geneforge again. Picking up the unconscious frog. Through the shimmering filter of the forge, you can’t tell if you succeeded. 

Slowly, you pull it out, and a pair of legs emerge, then the torso, and then you’re holding it before you. 

Where’s the glow?

Oh stars, did you mess this up? 

You can almost see Haldane’s smirk grow wider, but then, you see it. 

You have to cover the frog with your other hand for it to be obvious now, but you see it. 

A pale blue glow. It worked.

You exhale, relieved, and you place your frog back into its tank, peel off the slimy glove, and you begin typing your results. 

Somewhere beside you, Haldane rolls her eyes. 

 

Mediocrity. 

You hated it. You hated how your friends would give you pitied smiles when you got your results. 

You’d barely scrape into an A, after weeks and sleepless nights of study. But them? They’d always have just a few marks more. And though they’d never say it, they always held it against you, you could always see how their faces would shift, their smiles just a little different for you than for each other.

_Poor Margulis, sad Margulis. She’s just not that clever, I guess._

You hated it. 

You were born to a high class, though you suppose looking back now, that your birth was the luck of location. You could have been born to an Enginus just outside compound walls, your father always said. You could have been cloned into corpus ranks.

But no, your youth was spent in a cushy life moving from compound to compound when your parents got placed where they did. With Orokin leaders fighting to snap them up.

Expectations and all. Your parents being what they were, your father was an Archimedian, an expert in technology. What kind, he never told you. 

You always knew his work was confidential.

Even your mother an Asiper, a genius of biology and anatomy. She worked on the team that created the Lora devices. 

That’s how she met your father. She told you once. A marriage of natural and mechanical sciences, they joked. 

_And a child who would excel in both._

The thought had hung unspoken between you all ever since then. They’d never say it, but you couldn’t help but feel shame, a slow bubbling thing in your stomach, that you wouldn’t live up to their expectations. 

Expectations. You were one of the more privileged few already, daughter of an Archimedian! Sure you were no Haldane, but they expected you to be clever. 

No, not clever. Brilliant. 

You remember walking through the halls of your school, in a pale blue uniform with gold accents. You remember times where a classmate or two would approach you, ask you to tutor them. 

And you’d smile and say sure, but after each lesson, you’d feel like such a fraud. 

What if you’d taught them wrong? What if you mistook one concept for another? You were no good with words, but you did try. 

After each lesson, you’d wait, for an upcoming test, a project that required them to use what you taught. And you’d wait for a complaint, for some whispers to come through that Margulis told me this but it was wrong.

The whispers never came. But still you could not be content. 

Over the years, you studied harder, and you excelled, eventually. You’d sit in your library with your volumes and vitruvians and holograms, letting hours pass before your mother got a Klyte to call you for dinner.

You remember emerging bleary-eyed from the dim study, your skirts crumpled from staying in your seat so long, the pleats out of place and creased at odd angles. 

But soon, you promised yourself. 

They’d see your worth. Soon.

==============================

The morning comes with a gentle voice, and the sounds of crex chirping outside, the sound of sunrise. 

_Good morning Archimedian. It is time to awaken._

The voice seems to smile. 

You open your eyes to blurry shapes and red splotches floating about your broken vision. 

Ah, yes. Day two.

You get up, slipping the device over your eyes. 

You kneel by your bedside table, opening the drawer and picking an ivory plate inlaid with gold. Ballas had it made for you, early into your relationship. 

_A gift_ , he said, _If I cannot see your eyes, then this mask shall be art in its place._

You look it over for a moment, admiring the braided gold rope and the drops of topaz. It was designed to mask the sensors just enough to make your device seem more a choice than a necessity.

You snap it on, the little magnets catching the sides. 

You should at least look presentable today, you were scheduled to meet an Archivist. 

It’s easy enough to match your outfits when all your clothes are yellow. You pick a silken saffron tunic and a daffodil overskirt, pleated and embroidered so finely that they seem like the gills of a mushroom. 

And over it you shrug on your Archimedian’s mantle. The sleek shoulders making you look almost regal. You straighten the purple-black cape, untangle the beads. And you look in the mirror. 

And you see a woman in yellow and deep purple, dark hair tied neatly out of the way. You see a woman covered in status, a woman whose eyes would perhaps be weary if it weren’t for the mask over her eyes. 

It suddenly dawns on you that you haven’t seen your own eyes in over six years. 

( _What colour were they?_ )

You don’t remember.

==============================

Your arrival at the Conservatory was a quiet one. You did not speak to the Dax escorting you, and they did not speak to you.

A good thing too. You had nothing good to say.

You step off the transport platform, behind two Dax walking side by side, and two more still behind. 

Quiet, you thought. 

In the streets around you and up the steps, other scholars whispered. An Asiper and her students pass you on your way up, and though the good doctor herself pays you no mind, her students stare and chatter among themselves. 

Unknowing or uncaring that you in fact could see. 

You enter into the main foyer, tall ivory ceilings and gold and bronze lines snaking up into the heights. Looking up, you see the lines converge around a a white disc. Something shifts within and you realise it is a skylight. 

You hear footsteps approaching, and you look ahead to see a Scriven hurrying towards you. Pale yellow tunic with their uniform greys. You remember when Archivists would visit you at your work, their own personal Scrivens shuffling behind, bringing refreshments, holding files, taking notes the Archivists were too high-up to take themselves. 

This one must be a little higher ranking, judging from the more elaborate scrolling along the edges of the tabard. Probably belonging to the Conservatory itself. 

“Archivist Xenoph is awaiting, Archimedian. Please, come this way.”

You take a moment too long to step forward and a Dax behind you prods you with his gun. 

You are marched down the long halls edged with gold. White discs beam from the gold stripe at even intervals, and every now and then, you see a hovering pedestal bob above a disc. A cephalon glowing patiently upon it, waiting for its next command. 

The doors are mostly shut today, and you wonder if it is because of you. Usually they are bustling, with Archivists and Scrivens wandering between the rooms, carrying holograms back and forth.

The Scriven stops and so do you. 

The corridor has reached a T-junction, with doors stretching down the left and right. You look and see that on each end, a staircase curves out of sight, probably to more chambers behind. 

They approach the cephalon, have a small conversation, and the door hisses open.

“You may enter” they say, bowing and scurrying off. 

Ah, you think. This must be an interrogation room.

There is a single pedestal in the centre, and two seats, one taken. Inside, the walls are mirrored like some kind of strange geode. 

The Dax walk you in, sit you down, and they step outside, their thousand reflections following them. 

The door hisses shut. 

Before you sits Archivist Xenoph. An older man, black hair turning to silver, with eyes of dimly glowing silver and blue. You joked once that he should go for renewal therapy. He said he liked his silver hair. Xenoph was your friend once, maybe even a mentor. 

He waves and a cephalon appears. 

“Before I begin this recording, Archimedian, is there anything you’d like me to know?”

You shake your head.

“Good.” he says, face devoid of emotion. “Then let us begin.”

==============================

As you grew, you slowly began to get better. 

One good school after another, you excelled, you excelled, you excelled again. 

Your parents were proud, you knew, but you couldn’t help but wonder if it was pride or relief. That their daughter did not disgrace them.

And even now you cannot shake the feeling that you are undeserving. Your titles, your accolades. 

_One of the greatest minds of your generation_ , they called you, when they were presenting you your Archimedian’s mantle.

You remember bowing, the guest Executor beaming down at you, presenting you to your cohort after you said the last words of the oath. Behind you, a projection of you and him smiling on stage. Large enough for the audience to see. 

And you remember standing before this crowd of hundreds, clapping, cheering, a whistle here and there. All proud of you, glad to see you succeed, you know some of them must have nominated you for you to even be considered for such a position. 

You think they must be mistaken.

==============================

It’s at the gala after that you first met Ballas.

Held in an imperial frigate, you were invited as the new wave of Archimedians.

You remember his smug grin, the wryness of his words. He was extraordinarily handsome, golden eyed and square jawed, with a bone structure that looks like it was sculpted carefully from fine marble. 

He was perfectly symmetrical, clever and charming. You spoke to him for the first time that night and you remember disliking him immensely.

You knew you were young, fresh-faced, an Archimedian at the beginning of her life. 

But so was he, you thought, he couldn’t have been more than a decade older than you, already very young for an Executor. 

But you did not know the secrets of Continuity then.

He spoke to you as if speaking to a child or some incompetent Enginus. He spoke with just enough of a condescension that you could not talk back, but you felt that familiar prickle on the back of your neck. 

Chafing under his golden gaze, you nodded, smiled, politely laughed at his jokes. And the first moment you could, you excused yourself. 

Behind you, you felt the burn of a smirk on the back of your head.

That would be the last of him, you thought. you would barely need to see him again, he’s an Executor after all. 

And then he found you later. 

Alone on the balcony of the ship, you stared out into the darkness of space. An incredible sight, stars twinkling in the distance, the shape of Mars looming below. 

“Events like this are not your cup of tea, I presume?”

You startle. Watching the tall figure approach. 

“No, Executor. I- I am simply unused to this. There’s so much… grandeur.”

“Well, if you prove yourself in the following years, perhaps you’ll see more.” he smiles.

Something was lurking in that smile. You didn’t know what, but it was enough to make your hair stand.

“You began in biosynth, if I recall.”

“Yes.” you say.

He hums. 

“That may prove useful to the Empire. Soon, perhaps. You heard of the Zariman Ten-Zero?”

“I find it hard to think of anyone who hasn’t. It suddenly reappeared, did it not?”

He smiles, saying nothing.

“I’ve heard things about you, Archimedian.” he says.

“What sort, may I ask?”

“Nothing too concerning. A little something about your soft spot to lower life forms.” 

“Is that bad?”

“Only if you think it is.” he smirks.

Something inside you twists. From how he said it maybe? 

“I fail to see how it’s bad.” you say, looking into the stars, casually as you can. “If we cared not about lower life forms, how would we find genetic marvels?”

You can feel his eyes on the side of your face. But you manage to squeeze out a reply.

“It’s the basis of such common life improvements. The glow of your ocular implants, for example.”

“And what of… oddities, mutations?”

“Natural wonders, I suppose. If it were a result of our own meddling, we could find such interesting things, for novelty or necessity. If it was a mistake, then we learn, we adapt.”

“And if it were some other outside force altogether?” he asks, and you can feel the smile in his voice.

You deadpan, “If it was caused by something out there, I’d say they were meddling with us.” 

He chuckles at that. 

“You’re lucky you met me, Archimedian.” he says as he begins to leave. “Margulis, was it? I do hope we meet again. We could talk about such interesting things.”

And he walks away without another word.

==============================

When you stepped into the judgement room, you thought it was a prestige. 

A role, a duty given by the Council themselves? By the stars, what an opportunity.

But here you are, ten minutes after, still leaning on the wall nearby, trying to calm your racing heart. 

“I admit, I did not think you would be up to the challenge.” 

You turn, and Ballas is standing there, pearl white clothes and gilded details, a similar long shoulder cape, glittering with beads and a golden pauldron. 

“You underestimate me, Executor.” You find yourself saying, thinly veiled spite in your voice. 

He smiles, infuriatingly. 

_I’m not sure this one would be up for it_. You recall from just minutes ago. 

_She’s got quite a soft spot for such monstrosities._

“You seem to think I estimate anything, Archimedian. I see your talents and I wish to see them put to good use.” 

How he says talents makes your skin crawl. Almost a mockery, he chose his words carefully, baiting you, and you can’t help but be lured in. 

“Well I am glad the council has seen me as useful.” You smile, sweet as you can. “May the empire flourish with my contributions.”

“I’m certain it will. Why else do you think I suggested you?”

He catches the surprise on your face before you rein it in. 

“Did you really think I doubted you for this?” he says, half laughing. “My judgement is superior, I can assure you.”

“Then why the mockery?” you almost sputter “Why-”

“Why what, Archimedian? Why make you fight for your place? Why make it seem that you were more than capable to argue your case? Do tell me.” he grins.

You fume quietly, and he chuckles as he turns and walks off. 

But he stops, three steps away. “Oh and one more thing,” he says, not even turning to face you. “I’ll be overseeing your project. _Personally_. I do hope your good luck continues, Archimedian.”

You watch him leave and it feels as if he’s struck you. 

The mantle you wear, once a symbol of pride, now weighs on your shoulders like iron. 

Something burns in the pits of your stomach and you hurry away, down the steps of the Conclave and to your waiting transport below. 

You step onto the platform, telling the Klyte to take you home, _and hurry please_ , you added, perhaps more harshly than intended. 

You practically storm through your house, feeling ever much a hurricane, a lightning storm, some indomitable force of nature. 

Luck, he said. 

Luck. 

It was not luck that brought you here, it was not luck that rose you through the ranks. It was no luck that you wear your mantle. 

Spite has been your spur so far and it will drive you further. 

You receive your home cephalon within the hour, and within the afternoon, the files to your new work. 

You will not fail, you tell yourself.

You feel your throat tighten and burn, in your chest, something flames. 

You find yourself reaching up to scrub your eyes, surprised when your hand comes away wet. 

When did the tears start? Not on the transport, you hope. People will whisper and you can’t have that. 

No, you need to get to work.

And just as you did, years ago, you sit at your desk and tap open the first file. 


	3. Stoke the Forge

Upon stepping off your transport, the Klyte bows and wishes you a pleasant day. You turn to thank her but she’s already hovering the transport away and out of sight. 

You look up at the triangular structure before you instead. 

Not the biggest of Orokin buildings but pretty massive by the look of it. Walls of blue and white cut an ice-like line across the sky, swirling lines of black and gold etched in. There are no windows that you see, just one massive pair of doors before you, high and arched. There are Dax stationed at intervals along the entire wall. 

Gold bands spin slowly and swirl within the door itself, a familiar locking mechanism, just much more intricate. On the door itself, thin black lines run horizontally, equidistant and parallel. 

A new design feature perhaps?

You walk up the steps towards it, and the gold bands rotate into position, unlocking the doors. The doors hiss, each section between the black lines curling inwards in turn, like steel fingers peeling away. 

They told you this project was for the war effort, but the door reinforcements still surprise you. 

You’ve never worked on something of such high priority before.

The Dax nod at you as you enter, and you glance behind to see the steel fingers curl back outwards, and another set of pearly white doors slide shut to cover it. 

Can’t be ruining the aesthetic with dark metal. 

You see someone hurrying up to you, a scriven, tablet and stylus in hand. 

“Archimedian, well met.” she says, bowing “I am Dimoula, your personal scriven. Let me show you around.”

“Yes, please do.” you reply, and follow. 

You are shown the various labs, the holding rooms, the various cells and a massive library with its own cephalon. 

Amiris, he is called. He floats in the centre of the library, arranging the volumes and categorising the files. 

He greets you, politely, then returns to his work.

The facility is largely empty now. 

Enginus still wander, making last-minute adjustments, doing their final scans. They seem to cower away after they greet you. Nearly flinching as your cape trails past them, barely slipping past. 

There is a room still half built, and Dimoula points in. 

“This will be one of the observation rooms.” she says, matter of factly, “Where they will be held for your experiments.” 

That makes you draw a sharp breath. Experiments. 

In seeing the expanse of this place you nearly forgot your duty. 

“We shall be over there,” she says, pointing off to a mirrored piece of glass, high up on the wall, overseeing the large room, “It’s been reinforced for our protection.”

In the room you see builder Grineer hauling sheets of metal, an Enginus in his dark blues watching over them with a tablet in hand and a gun on his hip. 

You fight the urge to wrinkle your nose. 

This phase is almost complete, you think, as Dimoula leads you out, bowing as she stands by the doors.

She _awaits your leadership_ , she says, and _trusts that you will lead the Empire to greatness_. She bows again as the doors curl shut, and you begin to make your way down the steps.

Something about her statement makes your hair stand, and something twist in your guts ever so slightly. 

An old feeling, a familiar one, from years of friends past. Expectations, being what they were. 

You brush it off. 

(But if only she knew. If only you knew too.)

==============================

Going through the piles of resumes was a lot harder than you thought. 

So many great minds, so many brilliant people who could help you, work with you. You wanted to meet them all but time- there was no time. 

You did pick eventually, out of the perhaps hundreds of applicants you narrowed it down to about forty. 

Still a lot, but more manageable. 

Now you sit in this room, skirts carefully laid so that they would not crease as much, your mantle trailing over the seat. The wide table before you and an empty seat across. You sit with Dimoula, as she summons the first applicant in. 

With each interview you grew wearier. Brilliant, yes, an expert in their field, definitely. But something was missing in each of them. 

_Tell me why you applied for this job_ , you asked.

For the prestige, one said. For the ducats, said another. _To support the war effort in whatever way they could_ , said them all. 

Standard answers, but not great ones. 

But then again, it wasn’t as if they could know what exactly they were really getting into. 

It’s about six people in that there’s a knock on the door 

“Enter.” You say, and a tall man in white walks in. 

Ballas. 

You begin to stand, but he gestures for you to remain seated.

“I am here to observe, Archimedian,” he says, wandering over. Dimoula immediately offers him her seat, and he takes it. 

She leans over as she comes to stand beside you. 

“I didn’t know we were having visitors.” she whispers at you. 

“Neither did I.” you whisper back.

Ballas is eyeing you from your right. A little smirk playing about his perfect lips. 

“Call in the next one.” you say. And your scriven selects the next name on her tablet. 

The poor man. He comes in smiling, confident. And then starts stammering when he sees Ballas. 

An executor in the flesh, golden, radiant, symmetrical. 

He fumbles through his interview and scurries out the moment you let him go. 

You turn to Ballas. 

“I suppose you _meant_ to frighten him then.”

He just smirks.

“A weak one,” he says, “Imagine if you had hired him. How many experiments do you think he’d disrupt when I come to visit?”

“Fair point.” you reply. Then, turning to Dimoula, “Call in the next one.” 

This one exudes confidence. 

Which was fine as he came in, but now it’s getting mildly aggravating. 

Every other question you ask him, he digresses, talking about his achievements, his medals, how many successes he’s had. 

“Archimedian, I must ask,” he begins, smiling, “a lady as lovely as yourself must find no issue finding a suitor.” 

You resist the urge to cringe.

“What does this have to do with the job?” you ask, polite as you can.

“If you aren’t busy or taken, perhaps you could give me a chance? Let me take you to dinner.” 

You blink at him for a moment. “You are aware that you were selected for this interview for your experience in biosynth, yes? Not because you are particularly attractive?”

“Of course, but-”

“Then I see no reason for you to flirt with me right now, especially not in a professional setting. And even if we weren’t in such a situation, I doubt I’d be attracted to someone like yourself.”

“Apologies if I overstepped-”

“You did. You may go. We will contact you if you are shortlisted.”

He stands and bows, and as gracefully as he can, he walks out of the room and shuts the door.

Ballas chuckles.

“Have you let anyone take you to dinner, Archimedian?”

“That’s not of your concern, Executor.”

“Really? None at all? A real pity.”

“That was completely inappropriate! This is an interview, not some kind of get-together.”

“That’s true. And you were right to shut him down. But really? No suitor? No love to call your own?”

“Do you have one?”

“A suitor? I’ve had several. A lover, I’ve no time for.”

“Then you see why I don’t have one either.”

He chuckles again, leaning back in his seat.

You turn to Dimoula, who is giving you an odd look. 

“Alright, call in the next one.”

==============================

You do pick eventually. 

A team of twenty-two researchers, and about three dozen more beneath them. 

You’re glad you only needed to pick the twenty-two. 

You decided to call them Overseers.

You summoned them all into the facility, and standing in the main foyer to the place, you told them their duty. 

You remember their faces, mostly surprise, some pride, but in all a little hint of fear. 

You were to treat the Zariman children. Tragic things, orphaned by madness, touched by the Void. Their newfound abilities might be used for the war effort, you told them — “we could end the war before it even truly started.” 

The Sentients are still far away, being kept at bay with the current war machines. Good enough for now, but their threat must be eliminated before it reached any of the alt-Earth colonies. 

You remember walking to each of them, and telling each of them their specific roles. They accepted with grace, accepted with pride, how could they do anything else? They could only know the basics, the barest of detail to get them interested but nothing more.

They did not know the scale or scope of this job, they did not know what they were getting into, but this was their duty now.

Duty to the Empire was what it was, you didn’t just turn on that, how could you? The Empire loved its people, and in return the people must love their Empire.

You remember giving each of them a badge, each holographically displaying their name and designation. It was only visible within the facility, however, when the cephalon could watch over you.

_Overseer Mara. Caretaker._

_Overseer Bardeen. Head of Mechanicals._

_Overseer Nisaba. Lead Archivist._

Down the list you went, Dimoula trailing behind you, silently holding the box of badges. 

You remember Nisaba giving a glance and a wink over your shoulder, Dimoula blushing ever so slightly. In the months that followed they would begin a sweet romance. 

You remember Dimoula telling you about the engagement some time after. _She proposed!_ you remember her squealing, showing off her engagement necklace. Beautiful gold and inlaid with sapphires. 

They were married the next spring. A short two-day affair. After which they returned to work. There was celebration to be had, but much more work to be done. 

==============================

The facility was busy, everyone quickly settling into their new roles. There were many preparations to be done before the children came in. 

Eventually, you called them Tenno. A nickname trickled down from handler to overseer, and then to you. You liked that nickname, nice and simple, but holding as much meaning as the children had power. 

Tenno. Named for the ship that held them, for the voyage that gave them what they had now. It was apt, you thought, a history in a name, a nice thing to have. 

You remember the day they came, only a few months after the ship’s reclamation, transferred in from a holding facility in some location too confidential for you to know. 

You remember the shields they set up around the transport, Corpus crews and their MOAs, their odd mechanical forms marching by. They were setting up some sort of machine, you recall, within the shield itself. Each crewman armed, each overseeing Enginus at the ready. 

Now you think back, you realise the odd machine was a military-grade cannon. 

You stood aside at the doors, watching everything happen as if you were underwater. 

The transport bay doors opened, and slowly the crewmen approached. One by one, these silvery-black ovals emerged. Cryopods; this you knew, you had the facilities to awaken them. 

One by one, the crewmen hovered the pods up the steps. Each pod was taller than each crewman, an ominous metallic thing, almost alien. 

But then they approached you, and you stepped aside to let them enter. 

And you saw the shape inside. 

You expected some mutated thing, some tormented soul, blistering and scared body, limbs ballooning to eerie proportions. A broken empty husk scraped clean by the Void but- 

It was a child. 

Just like any other Orokin-born. 

This one, he slept peacefully, hair cropped close the the skull, no marks save for the small scar on his neck. 

The next, a girl, dark hair cut asymmetrically, with two uneven locks draped down the front of her face. She shifted a little and you nearly jumped, but she did not wake.

You had been apprehensive before, a little scared of the things you had heard, little monsters who could destroy a foot of metal just by screaming. You heard tales of researchers whose minds were torn asunder by Tenno who didn’t want to be touched.

But such incredible things they were too, for so long the Void had eluded the Empire, held it back from expansion, and now these children had it coursing through their veins.

Even though you knew they were children, you had told yourself, again and again, you knew and yet you feared, you had felt that reverence and revolt build in your veins, bubble up in your throat. 

They were _children_.

A feeling like a cold hand grasped your heart, a slow twisting _something_ burbled in your gut. 

“Archimedian? Are you alright? You seem a little pale.” Dimoula asks, hand out to steady you.

“I’m- I’m fine.” you say, blinking yourself back into focus.

 _Guilt_. You knew this feeling. 

This was the first time you were seeing the Tenno in person, and yet you felt you had already betrayed them. 

You were going to take care of them, channel their powers for good, make them worthy of the Empire again. Or so you believed. 

You took a breath.

You would make them whole again, you promised as you watched the pods go past, you could not restore their old lives but you could at least relieve their pain. 

The last pod emerged, hovered past you like a dark spectre.

You would care for them, you thought, promised, hoped. 

In the back of your mind an image of a broken bird lay on a field of gold.

You would remake the family they lost. 

Whatever it takes.

The last crewman walked by, the last Enginus behind him, you ushered them past and watched as the transport took off again. 

Whatever it takes.

Silently, surely, you walk into the facility. The dark metal fingers of the main door curling shut behind you.

==============================

In the months that passed, the children were woken, handful by handful, and slowly you learned how to deal with them, you learned how to talk to them so that they would not spook and shut you off. 

You learned how to telegraph your approach so that they would acknowledge you coming. 

As the last Tenno was woken, you were there to welcome them back. He rubbed his eyes, stepped out of the pod, looked around in part fear and part awe. 

And with open arms you smiled, beckoned him towards you, and you brought him to his friends.

By this time, the Tenno were always glad to see you, some would run to you as you visited their rooms, showing you things they drew, things they built.

One girl would bring you close and show you how she could lift a toy with her mind. 

Another would show you equations, schematics and blueprints for some machine he dreamt up. He would make you promise that once he was cured, you would join him in building it.

Sometimes when the children saw you pass, they would swarm at the windows of whatever room they were in, if they were able. Just to wave at you. 

In the months that passed, you saw yourself less as their overseer, and more as their mother. 

The dream therapy you help to engineer was working. Slowly, slowly, they could shape their powers, control them and keep them in check. Orphiatry, you called it, comprising of a series of therapy sessions, some in your dream device, some one-on-one with the Tenno.

Fewer repairs to the walls and equipment had to be made. Fewer researchers were injured, even the Tenno themselves learned how to heal each other using abilities only Lorists should be able to wield. 

You told Ballas whenever he came to visit. Almost too enthusiastically, you would give your report, he would smile that infuriating smile, interested but only barely. He would walk with you through the labs, past the rooms and holding cells, smiling down at your researchers, charming and golden, as he should be. 

You were proud, you told him, your children were doing well.

Well, almost all of them anyways. You had some trouble with just one, though you never told Ballas this. Always asking for his mother, always wanting to hide from the Voice.

“He’s hiding in the walls.” He’d say, over and over, “He’s listening, I can’t- I can’t-” he would stutter.

He had hurt the most of your researchers so far. And not even using his abilities, he would lash out, strike them with more strength than anyone expected, he would scream and cry and hurt himself, hammering his fists on his legs. 

In some instances you were forced to tranquillise him. 

It hurt you to see him like this, to see him be held down by six others, trying to force him into the chamber with the dream device. 

You walked in, just once, against the warnings of the overseer, to try and calm him. Overconfident in your relationship, so certain that he would know you, that he would never hurt someone he saw as a mother.

And then the accident happened. 

==============================

“Archimedian, how do you fare?”

You turn towards the voice. “Well, thank you. I didn’t expect you to visit me.”

You hear a chuckle, the thrum of a chair being summoned closer. You hear the soft shush of fabric as Ballas takes a seat.

“My star researcher? The head of the Tenno project, injured? Of course I came to visit.” he said.

You- did not expect him to end that sentence there. Where was the mildly demeaning statement, the sarcasm that dripped like honey from every word?

You ignored it. 

“I was told you were attacked by a Tenno.” he says, more a statement than a question.

“It was an accident.” you start, “He never meant to hurt me, I- I suppose I overstepped with him.”

“No matter, he has been transferred out.” he says.

Your head feels like it’s spinning, and in the darkness behind your bandages you think you’re going to fall over. 

“Why-”

“Because he is and has been a danger to not just our researchers but to the other Tenno.” he says, right about now, you think he’d fold his arms. 

“If it’s for the best.” you sigh.

“Don’t worry, Margulis, he is not of your concern any longer. Just focus on the rest of your work.”

“You don’t usually call me by my name.” you mutter.

“I don’t. But this is no usual situation.” he says. And in his voice you hear the hint of… something. You can’t quite put your finger on it.

“I should be getting an ocular device soon.” you say, smiling. “My work can continue once I have that fitted.”

It’s a slight pause before he speaks again. “Yes, yes, good. I shall visit again once you are well.”

“Thank you, Executor.”

You almost miss it, but there’s a sharp intake of breath. 

You wish you could see his face right now. Is his golden grin cracked now that his project is on hold? How is he sitting, what is he wearing today? 

A resounding silence fills your mind, like the moment after a gunshot, where all you hear is echo. 

Is he alright?

“I believe we are far past formalities, Margulis.” he begins. “You may simply call me Ballas.”

“Alright, Ballas.” you try the name on your tongue, it feels clunky, as the syllables leave your lips, almost like a word could be rusty.

“Rest well, Archimedian. Margulis.” 

And he leaves without another word.

==============================

In the weeks that followed he visited often. Once every week if he could, or sometimes even twice. 

If Dimoula noticed a difference she said nothing, but you knew she saw something. 

More often did she leave the room when Ballas came by, excusing herself to collect some files, go on her break, find her wife.

When you walked the corridors with him to show him your progress, no longer did you maintain your stiff posture and formal speech. When you sat at your desk to give him your report he smiled in genuine enjoyment. 

Your little meetings got longer, once the report was given you put it aside, started chatting about your days. 

“I suppose you can tell me now, about what happened to that project you approved last week.” you would smirk. 

“Confidential.” he’d smirk back. 

“What about what you were gossiping about with Archivist Xenoph?”

“Also confidential.” he’d smile.

“And your opinions on why Dimoula keeps leaving us alone?”

“Absolutely confidential.” he’d grin.

You had invited him back to your home once, for a drink and a talk. “Between friends.” you said, “I suppose we can call ourselves that now.” 

And he agreed. 

On the way out, you could see your overseers shoot you glances. You don’t return them.

“Have a good night, Archimedian.” Dimoula says, as she wanders past, smiling ever so differently.

Your heart is racing on the transport back, now realising what you just did.

And he agreed! 

Part of you knew clear as day why you asked, you knew what your conversations were beginning to sound like. You knew what it meant when Ballas would lean ever so slightly towards you, or bend close to whisper in your ear. 

And yet, you did not dare ask. You did not want a confirmation. 

( _But you did, didn’t you?_ )

You remember stepping off the transport, leading him into your living room, offering him a seat while you got some wine.

You remember returning with two glasses and a bottle. You remember emptying half of it over laughter and witty banter.

And now you sit on your couch, legs folded casually, leaning a little closer than you intended.

But so does he, comfortably, glass in hand. You know his eyes trace your features, lighting on your cheeks when you laugh, your eyes when you speak, your lips when you smile. 

“Oh, I have some sweet fruit grown on Neptune,” you say. “Let me get some for you to try.”

And you walk over to your kitchen, retrieve some sweet pink berries, your home cephalon levitating them into a dish. 

And you feel a presence beside you.

“Must be lonely,” he says, “No one to enjoy such pleasures with.”

You take a deep breath.

“You mocked me once, for having no lover.” you say, but your words don’t have the sharpness as they once did.

“I did. Once.” he says, stepping closer, at such proximity you can almost feel the warmth of his skin, it’s almost intoxicating.

“And now?” you say, heart pounding, blood rushing. Suddenly you are glad for the mask over your eyes.

“And now,” he says, as he reaches up to caress your cheek, “I believe you’ve finally settled for one.”

“I wonder who that is.”

He chuckles, low and soft. “A curious thought indeed.”

Your lips part, about to quip back, but there’s suddenly a warm softness. 

Ah. You think, but the thought stops short. 

He is at least a head taller than you, but he’s bent just enough that you can reach up and pull him closer.

His arm wraps around your waist and he’s holding you, and he’s warm. 

His lips are soft, and as he holds you close, the press of his lips against yours is velvet smooth like summer roses. 

You feel like you’re free-falling, with only his arms to ground you.

You kiss him like it’s the end of eternity, you kiss him like tomorrow would be your last. Like warm honey, this feeling pours through you, like summer sunlight, you bask in this radiant warmth. 

It’s good, it feels right. 

_You never want to let go._

==============================


	4. Mother

Presently, you sit. Back straight and hands folded in your lap. The Archivist sits across from you, hands steepled, he is saying something, but your mind is elsewhere.

You’re thinking this must be what it’s like to be inside a glacier. 

The faceted walls are crystalline, almost iridescent, reflecting your image a thousand times, scattering them like your thoughts across every surface. On every fragment of wall and ceiling you see saffron smudges, odd shapes in deep purple, greys and blues.

And in every little shift and movement the shapes move and twist, so much so that you avoid moving much altogether.

Your back is a little stiff.

“Speak, Archimedian.” he says, and you are snapped back into focus.

“Apologies, Archivist, could you repeat your question?” you say, a little embarrassed. 

Xenoph sighs, the incredulous, patronising kind, deep and gravelly and eyes rolling. 

“The night you rejected the Council’s request.” he says, “Tell me what happened.”

_Ah. That night._

“That is exactly what happened. I rejected their request.” you say.

“Details, Archimedian.”

You almost scoff. “I called-” you cough, almost dropping the honorific. “I contacted Executor Ballas. And I told him that I refuse to comply.”

He hums, “Why Executor Ballas? It was Executor Tuvul who asked you.”

“Why not? I had his contact details, he is on the Council. I see no issue.”

“And you are certain it was for no other reason?” he says, leaning onto a hand. 

You blink.

“What are you implying, Archivist?” you say, voice hard and brittle.

“I have information that you and Executor Ballas had, or rather, still have a _rather close_ relationship. Perhaps you spoke to him for sympathy, perhaps you hoped he would speak to the Council on your behalf.” 

You feel something burning well up in your chest, charring the inside of your throat. “I am well aware of where Ballas and I stand on this matter.”

“And does he stand with you? Or against?” 

“Why don’t you ask him for yourself? You seem to have your own assumptions.” you snap. 

Another sigh, and he shakes his head. “Tell me about events leading up to that day then. And please, Archimedian, spare no detail.”

==============================

It has been approximately five months since the night he came over, every now and then, you recall it with fondness. 

Drunkenly (or so claim) you stumbled into his arms, first onto the couch, then at some point, into your bed. 

You remember letting hours pass, lying awake and pressed against each other like clasped hands. You recall, his lips on yours, his gentle touch, whispering sweet things as the moons carried on their journey though the Martian sky. 

At some point, you both slept, though you don’t remember when. You do recall waking in his arms the next morning, him already awake, feeling him carding his fingers through your hair. 

He stepped out so you could dress, a new tunic edged in gold, a panelled skirt separated by high slits that reveal your legs as you walk. The lines and etchings in your undersuit catch the light and have a faint sheen as you move. 

Ballas was already downstairs, watching as your home cephalon prepared breakfast.

He smiles as you descend the steps, curling an arm around you as you come to stand beside him. 

“I assume we are both aware of our relationship’s status as of now.” he says.

You smile, taking a sip of fresh coffee. “I assume my team has been waiting for this moment for a while now.”

“They started a betting pool didn’t they?” he sighs, but fondly.

“I don’t doubt it.” you smirk. 

Ballas’ thumb is tracing lines on your hip and you find yourself leaning into it. And languidly, you tilt your chin upwards and your lips find his. 

Time is quickly forgotten, and you are half an hour late for work.

Dimoula says nothing when you arrive, but from her smile, you get the sense that she already knows. 

 

The memory fades now as you wander the halls of the facility. You wear deeper golds today, edged in black, the hem of your tunic dripping with dark opal beads. Your mantle sits proudly on your shoulders, a comforting weight now, with your cape trailing behind you as you walk. 

You pass by two of your researchers, and they nod at you as you pass. 

You enter the library, and Amiris greets you as you come in. 

_Welcome, Archimedian. How may I assist you today?_

“I need the logs from the past week’s Ophiatric sessions with-” you check your notes, “The Tenno from Batch Hito.”

_Of course, let me retrieve it._

You walk to a terminal and log in, the screen lighting up a pale grey as Amiris transfers the files over.

It was smart of you to put the Tenno in batches, having them split that way made it easier to handle, easier to schedule. There were only so many orphatric devices you could produce and it was much more efficient to just group them up. 

You scroll through the lists.

With every name and every report, you think. 

You think of Bryn. A tall one for his age, fourteen Earth years old, with hair cropped short and eyes of piercing platinum grey. Stern and stoic, he spoke in clipped statements, but he would smile a bit when you came into the room. 

Sometimes he would sit by you when the others were distracted, and he’d talk. “There’s a researcher who was injured recently, wasn’t he? I noticed a limp.”

You scroll to the next report. Looking at the headshot, you see soft amber eyes staring back. Sekh, a gentle girl, slow to anger and quick to laugh. She has blonde hair in tight curls that fluffed up around her head, and when she giggled, she would cup her hands around her mouth. She disliked conflict, always trying to break up fights between her batchmates. 

And yet despite her gentle demeanour her dreams were full of chaos. 

(“And why were you there that day?” the Archivist asks, half curious, half impatient.

“I had a report to write.” you reply.)

It was only in the evening, when you could see the moons beginning to crest the sky, and the sun slink down below the horizon, that you finally finished typing. 

You were back in your own office by then, your ocular device correcting for the amount of light. Though out of habit you flicked on your desk lamp anyways. 

You did your last proofreading, the compiled data all neatly arranged under their appropriate headers and subheaders, and you sent it off.

==============================

“Explain the significance of this, Archimedian.”

You wring your hands, mostly out of discomfort. The seat you were in was designed to make you want to fidget. 

“I believe that that was the report that changed things.”

You see Xenoph narrow his eyes ever so slightly. “How so?”

You tilt your head a little, “It was only after that I was invited to dinner. A friendly gathering, for pleasure, not business, or so I was told.”

He nods, “And who sent you this invitation?”

At this thought, you grimace, ever so slightly, “Executor Medea.”

==============================

Executor Medea was a tall, radiant beauty with silver hair and emerald eyes that glowed amber with the implants. She often had her hair coiled and braided elaborately, with long golden hair sticks extending out the back like antlers.

You’ve met her thrice. And after the first two encounters she had made is quite clear that she did not like you. 

Good thing. You didn’t like her either. 

And yet you’re here, in her personal residence, a gilded mansion of white marble and grey steel, filigree of silver and gold twirling up the edges like strange symmetrical moss. 

It was beautiful, much nicer than your abode, and located in the most exclusive part of town. 

(You say this with a slight grating in your voice. You did not enjoy being patronised.

Xenoph smiles ever so slightly at this. Amusement, possibly. Agreement, definitely.)

Her house klyte opened the door for you. 

You remember stepping in, to a long corridor of white and silver, lit by motes of soft white light. The klyte took your mantle, hung it in the coatroom, led you further in. 

You wore a pale gold dress that night, shimmery and soft, with streaks of brighter gold embroidered on the edges and emeralds dangling from your neck. You did not keep hair long enough to style so elaborately, but you did what you could with it, inserting jewel studded pins and pearls into your updo. 

If Ballas saw you, he would have told you you were angelic. 

And then you saw Medea. 

She wore pure white, as only an Executor could, thin silver branches curled up her torso and around her waist, a long cape draped over one shoulder, seemingly fading into a mist at the end. Her hair was braided and tied with her antler pins, but this time in silver and white. 

She grinned at you, and you bowed ever so slightly, as respectfully as you could with your blood boiling. 

Of course she would do this. 

“Executor Medea, how lovely it is to see you this evening, thank you for the invitation.” You said, practiced and polite. 

Somehow this made her grin wider. “Of course, Archimedian. It was my pleasure to have you over tonight.”

She gestured at a seat, and as you sat down, she took the spot across from you. 

Nonchalantly, she tipped her chin into her hand, elbow on the table. A look of amusement crossed her face. Something that sent alarm bells clanging in your head. 

It’s simple enough to politely listen as she prattles on about her day, simpler still to deflect and let her keep talking. 

The food comes, and the klytes lay it out in front of you, a delectable meat dish, some rare thing farmed offworld, and a sauce that was made from local vegetables. 

The klytes bring out wine too, and you must admit that it’s finer than any you’ve ever tasted. 

Medea smirks at every compliment, seemingly appeased with whatever you say, but you know the Executors weren’t chosen for beauty alone. Her smile hid the sharp teeth of some predator, and you knew enough that she’d be waiting for her chance to snap your head off. 

Still, dinner was pleasant, and she invited you to move to the sitting room for more drinks. 

And that’s when you felt it. Like gears clicking into place. 

You had walked into some sort of trap and you knew it. 

“So tell me, Margulis, I may call you Margulis, yes? How is the Tenno project coming along? I do recall being told of a report, some days ago.”

You smile, watching her lounge on the sofa, legs crossed and her hands clasped over a knee. 

“Well, I believe the results speak for themselves. The Tenno are adapting well to the therapy, and perhaps soon enough they can be slowly acclimatised back into civilian life. Returning them to an education program would be best for them, of course.” 

You watch her eyes narrow ever so slightly. 

“They may still be excellent members of Orokin society. The Empire could use their talents still.”

She smiles a little wider. And you feel like you narrowly avoided something. 

“And what talents would you say they have?” she asks. And your heart beats a little faster. 

“They are all varied, some might even be suitable Dax, if they wished to pursue that path, though I doubt any of them really want that.”

“Really? Tell me more, please, this is rather exciting.” she grins. 

You try and stifle a shaky breath. “I have a few who would make promising Asipers. Or, who knows, they might be the next generation of Archimedians.”

Medea laughs, “You think rather highly of those things, don’t you? How quaint.”

You bristle a little at that. “I am of the belief that, given the opportunity, ‘those things’ could be great, and am not ashamed of the possibility that they may be greater than me. Unlike some, I’m sure you know that?”

She smiles, though her eyes harden ever so slightly. “Of course, of course. Maybe one might make a worthy future Executor.”

You do your best not to flinch at the way she says that.

She thinks for a moment, and you see her eyes flick to a corner, eyelashes fluttering. “Oh, silly me, I forgot to ask. How is Ballas doing? Working with him must surely be interesting.”

You can feel the corners of your mouth pull up involuntarily, a moment of tenderness you let slip. And suddenly you are glad she cannot see your eyes. 

“Ballas is a pleasure to work with, though, of course, as a fellow Executor, you must see him more than I?”

Something changes in her, and though her face does not move, you can feel it. “Yes, but despite our proximity at work, we don’t speak often outside of the Council room. Busy schedules and all. Though we have been out for dinner a handful of times.” 

Something in you pulses with pride. Twice this week, he has already come to see you after work. 

“He is quite the conversationalist, though.” she says, “Has a remarkable wit, and an air of mystery about him that is rather attractive, if I do say so myself.”

“I must agree,” you say, “Speaking with him is rather refreshing, and the glimpses he gives into the great work of the Executors is, of course, rather intriguing as well.” 

“A pity I cannot share more about the work we do, only the people we come across.” she hums, “So, you and Ballas must be rather _well_ acquainted by this time, are you not?”

“I suppose we are.”

“Must be… interesting, I suppose, being the object of his fascinations for now. He does get rather intense when he is involved with a new project, doesn’t he? It’s a pity that he’ll lose interest once it’s done.”

Part of you wants to hit her, but you smile. “I find that extremely advantageous. The Tenno project does require much attention, and knowing that he has put so much time and effort into coming to visit the compound _so often_ is reassuring. It’s good to see how invested the Council is in learning about the Void and its effects on us.”

“He visits often hmm? How lovely.” she says, tapping her chin with one elegant finger. “I don’t suppose he brings gifts too?” she smirks, sarcastically.

“He has brought some, yes. It’s very generous of him, he really does care about the projects he’s overseeing doesn’t he?” you smile back, innocent as you can. 

“Oh, by the stars, is that the time? I better be headed off then.” you say, giving the clock on the wall a quick glance.

“Yes, perhaps you should.” she says through a gritted grin. “You must have so much work to do.” 

“It was a lovely dinner,” you say, getting up. “We should do this again, I enjoyed it.”

“If we can find the time, of course. Executors have busy schedules, you know.”

You nod, letting the klyte help you put on your mantle. 

“Till next time, Executor.” you smile and head to your transport. 

And as you turn, you swear you could feel her fuming.

==============================

“Executor Medea was curious about the Tenno project then?” asks the Archivist. 

You shrug. “Most likely, she seemed a little curious of various other things. Executors have busy schedules, she probably doesn’t get to know of other projects outside of the reports she reads.”

“Right. Now tell me about the day itself.”

==============================

There was a smell of clay in the air that day. Unfamiliar, it took you the better part of your morning to figure out what it was. Digging through your childhood memories, searching your mind backwards for some sort of clue. 

It was a more recent memory that made you realise. You were doing some training activities in a lab, it must have been, what, eight years ago? More? They brought samples of dirt, from various locations on Mars, part of the routine checks, to make sure the terraforming wasn’t undoing itself. 

“Aha”, you said to no one in particular. 

_Is something the matter, Archimedian?_

“No, Paldis, just wondering what the smell is”

Ballas was coming to visit soon. You finally got a day off work to spend time with him. A rare gift that everyone’s schedules lined up. Like a constellation. 

_There’s a visitor, Archimedian._

“Thank you Paldis, I’ll get the door.” You say, practically skipping over, waiting a moment to adjust your tunic and straighten your ocular device. 

You open the door with a smile. But it isn’t Ballas. 

You’re glad your device covers your eyes, so that your surprise isn’t visible. 

“Executor Tuvul, to what do I owe this honour? Please come in.” You stammer, bowing and stepping aside. 

Tuvul steps in, golden and glorious as Ballas, symmetrical too, but older, the look of a general carved into his features. He is beginning to wrinkle and his eyes are not as radiant but that is, you suppose, part of the charm. 

He wears a longer tunic, pearly white and edged in gold embroidery, dotted with blue gems like drops of water.

You close the door behind him, admiring his shoulder cape and pauldron, less geometric than what Ballas favours, but as the fabric shifts you see patterns shift, streaks of satiny white on matte. 

“Please take a seat, Executor, let me prepare some refreshments for you.”

“No need, Archimedian, this should not take long.”

He stands at the edge of your living room, admiring your home, his golden eyes lighting on various decor. 

“As you know, Archimedian, we have been monitoring your progress with the, what do you call them? Tenno?” He raises a perfect eyebrow. 

“Yes sir.”

“The Council is impressed. But we must advance further. On behalf of the Council, I am here to present you with a new directive.” He says, presenting you a card. It’s got the symbols of each of the seven on it, etched in gold and silver on a black field. 

“Read it carefully, we expect a prompt response with the timeline as well as any projected goals” 

“Yes, Executor.” you bow. 

“I must be going. Hopefully, I shall have a response by the end of the month. Ten days of consideration is surely enough for you, Archimedian?”

“Of course. Thank you, for visiting personally.” 

And with a nod, he steps out. You watch him step aboard his own transport, flanked by Dax on each side.

The moment you shut the door, you heave a sigh of relief, looking down at the card in your hands. You watch the image shift like a lenticular, the symbol of the Council seeming to dance and shimmer. 

You would open the file within that night, placing the card onto your home cephalon’s base at your desk. And it would flash and glow, lighting your room a pale blue, you would listen to those words, read aloud in Tuvul’s voice, pausing and playing one part over and over again. 

_…and we shall transition the Tenno project into something new. You shall now head the Warframe project. And the Tenno shall be their masters._

==============================

“And that’s when you contacted Executor Ballas?” Xenoph asks, head held in one splayed hand. 

“Not immediately. But soon after.” you gulp.

“And, please, do humour me, your reasons again? For not complying with the Council’s request?”

You avert your gaze, though the Archivist would not know it. There is nothing to save you now.

“I could not do it. Still cannot do it.”

“Why not, Archimedian?”

You look him straight in the eyes. And though he cannot see where your eyes are, you are certain he feels your gaze. “Because they are my children. And what mother would I be, to willingly send my children into a war?”

==============================


	5. At the Price of Oblivion

An echo of steps followed you down the hallowed halls of the Basilica, motes of light like miniature pulsars lighting your way to the judgement rooms. 

Flanking you are Dax, six of them, weapons at the ready, and leading you all is the Archivist himself. 

There’s a weight to his steps, heavy and sullen. 

He knows what the verdict is, you think, and you think you know too. 

All you have left is to hope. 

You are led down another hallway, a different path from the last few times. You frown slightly, confused. But quickly enough you see you are being led to a holding cell. 

Bron stands there beside the door, hands clasped in front of him. The red tones of his coat and mantle seem more foreboding than usual. 

The Archivist stops. “You may speak to your Naditu, Archimedian, but do be concise, we do not know how much time you will be held here.”

You are led into the holding cell, and much like the interrogation room, it’s faceted and glimmers like the inside of a geode. There is a single chair in the room, cold metal and uncomfortable-looking. And as Bron enters behind you, the door hisses shut. 

“Let’s go over your options, Archimedian.” he says, calm as he can manage.

“Let’s be honest, Bron. I don’t have any.” you reply.

He gulps. “Well, you’re scheduled for the final trial tonight. But that could possibly be postponed depending on-”

“I’m going to face the jade light, aren’t I?” 

Bron sighs. “That seems the most likely, yes.” 

There’s a heavy silence that fills the room, settling on your shoulders like ghostly cold hands.

“I’m sorry, Archimedian. There is not much I can do.”

“That’s alright, Bron. You’ve done more than enough, thank you.”

The silence fills your lungs, and like lead, it begins to pull at your heart.

“Is there anything I can do or anyone I can call for you, Archimedian?”

“No, no. That’s fine.” you sigh, looking down at your feet. “I think I’ll be alright.”

“Yes, of course.” he says, and backs towards the door. 

Bron knocks on it twice, and you can hear the sound of footsteps coming to unlock it.

“It was nice knowing you, Archimedian. For what little time we had.”

You smile at that. “Thank you, Bron.”

He is let outside. And you retreat to the chair as the door slides shut behind you. 

==============================

It’s cold. 

Cold and bright, with the strange sound of water dripping onto stone echoing all around you. Seeming to come out of the walls, the floor, the ceiling. 

It’s slightly maddening, and you believe that that is exactly the point. 

It’s been three and a half hours, by your estimate. And you are left alone to your thoughts. 

But your thoughts are where the danger truly lies. You try and clear your mind, meditate, focus on nothing but the dripping noise, your breathing, the cold that turns your hands to stone, but you can’t. 

You can’t rest, can’t focus on other things. 

There is no steeling of your heart, for you are already so cold and numb to your fate that it no longer matters. After the first half an hour of stressing about it, you remember the real problem here.

Your children. The Tenno. 

Your pride and joy, the stars that glow in the darkness of your night sky. 

There’s nothing you can do.

You go through your mental list. You’ve placed them, one by one, into their cryopods. You told them you have to go, gentle as you could. You stood and smiled and shushed as they slowly drifted to sleep, though you could see the panic build on their features. 

You watched as their expressions eventually settled into impassive restfulness. And heaved the sigh of relief, a hope that this one, and the next and the next, will not have to wake to a war. 

You watched, with what time you were given, as the pods were loaded on board a ship, a military frigate, bound for Lua. And you stood watching for as long as you could before the Dax came.

As you were led away you looked ahead, at the doors that you once passed through with apprehension. You didn’t dare steal glances at the people who lined the halls, not the Overseers who trusted you, not the Archivists who followed you. Not Dimoula, loyal and kind and clever. Who you know would know better than to cry or protest. 

She would have stood by Nisaba’s side, face stern, their hands clasped and not letting go. 

You did as you were told, handed over the keys and codes to the facility, let the Dax come into your home and clear out your work files.

You can feel the stinging heat of anger building in your chest. But it isn’t really anger, you realise. It’s an indignant burn, that all that you’ve worked for, all that you’ve done for the Empire has been stripped away. 

One call, that’s all it took. 

One call, that tore apart your whole world, your life’s greatest work. 

Finally, after so long, you find something to be proud of, you found something that you’d protect and cherish and love. 

You’d be willing to die for this and that’s exactly what you’ll do.

Dread fills your heart, you can feel your thoughts all draining into a black hole. There is no conscious thought that can pull you free, you think. 

But then you catch sight of it. 

Treachery. 

It’s a new kind, still angry, still disappointed, but also specific, in some strange way. 

It’s a thread you pull, and you follow it, wandering through the dark expanse until you see it. 

Ballas. 

Your lover, your light. 

Why- why him? 

Why? 

No- 

You know why. 

There’s an understanding there. That Ballas is an Executor first, though he loves you, he loves you with every fibre of his being, and that love floods his veins and lights his eyes but he was always an Executor first. 

He had to tell the Council your response. He had to. 

But why then, does this feel so wrong? 

He would not have saved you, he would have to do his duty, to the Seven and to the Empire. He would have to-

The thought looms large, you try to look past it, around it, away. But you can’t.

No. 

No, you know this. He would have saved you, he would have if he tried. You know him, you know his fierce intellect, his force of will, the sharp, shrewdness that made him who he is. 

He would have saved you if he tried. But he didn’t. 

He chose to save himself. 

You choke back a sob as the pain in your chest grows, you grit your teeth, you clench your fists so hard that your nails dig crescents into your palms. 

You can’t cry. 

Not now. 

But you do. You feel the wet trails streak down your cheeks like war paint. The tears, they fall at odd angles, dripping out the side of your ocular device. 

You reach up to tear it off your face but your hands come to rest on the mask you wear. The one he gave you. 

Your fingers caress the smooth metal, gold filigree and topaz studded. Like a ship fresh off a solar rail, the memory jolts into your mind. 

The tears flow freely now. 

It hurts.

You feel used and broken, your spirit torn to shreds. 

(He didn’t save you. 

He didn’t save you. 

He didn’t save you.)

==============================

It’s still cold.

Though the cold doesn’t grow numbing, it’s enough that you cannot sleep. Despite your best efforts, you can’t doze off. 

Your tears stopped flowing an hour ago, but your eyes, still swollen, blink hidden behind your device. You removed the mask a while ago, and now it lies in your lap, a strange artefact now, a relic of happier times. 

You don’t want to touch it, but you also can’t let it go. 

Your fingers curl around it still, your thumbs brushing over the gold. 

There’s an emptiness now, though it’s heavy in your chest. A strange feeling you haven’t truly felt before. Hopelessness is not something you are used to. 

The door clicks, and you almost startle. 

And you prepare to speak to your Naditu as he enters but it isn’t him. 

Ballas. 

He wears his usual pearl white robes today, the shoulder cape trailing long and beautiful under the pauldron. His work clothes. 

He remains stoic, watching you with cold eyes, a practiced expression. 

“Let us know if you need any assistance, Executor.” a Dax says from the doorway. 

“Yes, of course. Now leave us. I wish to speak to the Archimedian alone.” he replies.

It’s an odd thing, to see his eyes soften when the door closes. 

“Margulis.” he says, in a voice that’s half a whisper. 

You say nothing. 

“I came to see if you were alright. If there was anything I could do.”

“There is.” you reply, voice hollow.

“What would that be?” he says, with a kindly smile. 

“Do- something. Get me out of here.” you say, a little bit more frantic than you’d like. 

“You know I can’t” he says, reaching out to caress your cheek. 

You push his hand away. 

“Can’t? Or won’t?”

Ballas flinches, his arm withdrawing back under his cape. He averts his gaze for a moment. Apprehension, you recognise this. 

“I told you not to speak out. If you recant, maybe-“

“You lied to me Ballas. You’re no different than the rest of them.” you spit back, teeth gritted. 

There’s a pregnant pause. The air seem to buzz electric, a burning flame feels like it’s beginning to blaze the room. 

“You didn’t save me.” you say, voice hoarse and chipped at the edges. 

“I tried to speak to them, love. I told them, there were other ways of-”

“You. Didn’t save me.” you say again. Looking him straight in the eye, and you know he feels your gaze.

Time seems to slow, then speed. You watch each other, your hands grip the mask tight, its soft edges suddenly seem sharp. 

“You didn’t even try, did you? I do believe you when you said you told them, that you said there were other ways. But did you vouch for me? Did you speak of my deeds for the Empire? Did you? Or did you let the others decide, let them speak for you and then try and manipulate them to your will? Only to fail.” you half-snarl. 

“I trusted you, Ballas. I love you, I still love you. But how dare you come into this cell, come in and ask me to recant, when you and your dear Seven have taken everything from me?”

“How could you stand there covered your status when you’ve let all of mine be stripped away? Even if I recant, then what? I will no longer be a respected Archimedian. My best work is gone, my files have been confiscated, and my children- the Tenno.” you pause a moment to catch your breath, reel in your anger just enough.

“You took my children away from me. There is no going back, Ballas. I did what was right. I did what a caretaker should. I protected these children from being part of a war. I have nothing to recant, nothing to regret. And there is nothing I want to go back to.”

He stares at you, and though his face shows nothing, you know his eyes flicker, shock and anger and. Guilt. 

He exhales, a deep sorrowful breath. 

“Margulis…” he says, “Please… forgive me.” 

Something cracks inside you, it isn’t something you thought could crack before. Rage floods your veins, your breath feels laboured, there’s a frantic look in your eye that you’re glad the ocular device conceals. 

He didn’t even deny it. 

You can feel yourself shaking, buzzing with anger and agony. 

And he leaves. 

And the room is cold again. 

==============================

It’s a few more hours before you hear the door click and hiss again. And again you see your Naditu, standing sullen behind a troupe of Dax. They come in and escort you out, and Bron comes to walk beside you. 

“I tried to speak to them again, Archimedian. But to no avail. I’m sorry.” He whispers. 

“That’s alright” you sigh again. “I’ve accepted this.”

You are led by the Dax around a familiar bend. But you are brought further still, instead of into the same judgement room. 

Bron looks more afraid than you. His face contorted into mild panic. 

The Dax stop, and you look ahead. The doors you see are much more elaborate than the ones for the other judgement rooms, this one with braided blue and gold metal rope embedded into the door. Rounded gems of beautiful amber are set into each side. Perfectly symmetrical. 

Bron steps aside, and he catches your gaze for a few moments. Another silent apology. 

He nods. 

The doors slide open, and you see a judgement disc, a cold iron circle on the floor, with bands of gold set into it. 

You enter, the Dax not needing to poke and prod at you this time. And you kneel on the disc. 

The Dax move to take their places under each projection as it flickers to life. The faces of the Seven illuminate the room. 

The godly spectres, looming larger than life. 

Ballas shifts, as if to stand, and he speaks. 

“Honoured Seven, we have gathered here today to carry out the sentencing of Archimedian Margulis… You face the Jade Light, recant, and we will grant a merciful death.”

You look up, your lips pulled into a tight line. There is much anger in your heart but also a strange peace. 

You did what was right. There is nothing you can recant.

Ballas knows that, doesn’t he? But he looks towards you anyways. A small spark of hope in his eyes, that you’ll do the smart thing, that you’ll beg and grovel. 

Your eyes scan over each of the Seven. Your eyes lighting on Medea, looking smug as ever. At Tuvul, looking grim but fair. 

You look at Ballas again. His face betrays nothing. But you know his heart, and perhaps now you are sorry. 

Not for your supposed crimes but for the pain you are about to cause him. 

You look straight at Tuvul now. 

“My daughters, my sons.” You say, voice clear. “I want you to know, my last thoughts are of you.” 

Tuvul’s expression shifts. A neutral one to disappointment. He had hopes for you too. 

You see Ballas raise his hand, to gesture to someone unseen. 

His face is stern but his eyes, oh his eyes, they’re already mourning. 

“The judgement has been made.” He says. 

He waves his hand slightly, and you watch as the disc begins to glow. 

Your heart is racing a million miles an hour but you steady yourself. Looking up at Ballas, knowing he has your gaze. There is a look you both share. 

Full of anguish, of sorrow, full of guilt for what you have to do. 

And in these last vengeful moments you feel a little sad too. That you wouldn’t be around to ease his suffering. 

A second ticks by. And the Jade Light fills the chamber, a beam centred on the disc you kneel on. 

Another second, and you can feel your skin prickle with heat, as the beam intensifies, glowing brighter still. The pain is growing intense, but you don’t scream. 

You just look at Ballas, letting this last sight ease your suffering, just a little. 

Another second, and you feel- nothing. Your vision is white now, as the jade light brightens further. You shut your eyes, though it does nothing to change the absolute brightness you see. 

There is no pain now, no suffering, just nothing as your consciousness fades. And your body is turned to dust and ash. 

One last second ticks by and the light fades.  

The empty disc lies in the centre of the judgement chamber, the Dax standing around it, weapons at the ready. Projections faintly buzzing. A silence takes the room again. The air cools, the Council looks on. 

There is nothing there, and you’ve faded into nothing more than a memory. 

 

==============================


	6. Requiem for an Exile

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains spoilers for quests starting from Apostasy onwards

Today is the day again. 

You listen now. Ringing the funeral bells quietly in your home office. The mask she wore, the one you gave her, studded with topaz along golden vines, now lies beside the bell on your desk. You remember retrieving it, just after the sentencing. You excused yourself and walked straight into the cell that held her. 

And there it was. Left on the chair, gazing up at you. 

It aches. 

As it always has, ever since she passed.

No, not passed, since you had to send her into the Jade Light. It was you who pulled the trigger, so to speak. It was you who gave the signal, sending the cephalon the codes to illuminate the judgement disk. 

You heave a heavy sigh now, as a pang of sorrow streaks through your heart. For there is no greater grief to be left behind after a loved one has gone. 

Or, that was what you believed. But now you know a grief greater still, is to be the hand that dealt the killing blow.

The bell tolls, one more for every year you spend without her.

(You’d hear this sound again, in a future so far off, you would think it impossible.)

She was still here, with you, or so you believed. 

You could feel her presence, sometimes, when you saw things she loved, the strange things, asymmetrical, monstrosities and anomalies. 

You could almost hear her sigh in disappointment at having to destroy failed prototypes. You could almost swear you felt her hand clasp yours, looking through the observation window of an experiment chamber. 

You pick up the mask. 

“Shawil.” you call out. And you watch as your home cephalon blinks into consciousness, the little disc on your desk lighting up.

_Yes, Executor. What may I assist you with today?_

“I’d like you to run your diagnostics now, as well as scan all my files and double check the security codes. The usual.”

_That might take at least two hours Executor, is that agreeable?_

“Yes.”

_I am not able to respond to your requests while diagnostics are bring run. Is there anything I may do for you before, sir?_

“No, nothing. Just begin.”

_Yes, Executor. Right away._

You watch the prism of light blink out, morphing into a ring of light. And your focus returns to the mask again. 

You let a few silent seconds tick by.

“It’s been four years, love.” you begin, voice trembling, “It’s getting easier without you, but also much, much more difficult.” 

You take a few deep breaths, steadying your voice. 

“It’s been a fruitful year, the war against the sentients is going rather well.”

You turn the mask about in your hands, watching the gold detail catch the light and glimmer. 

“We’re gaining ground. We’ve even reclaimed Neptune and Jupiter.” you smile a little. 

“It will probably be habitable again within the next month or two. When the Grineer are done cleaning up the debris. I would have liked to take you there. A little vacation, just the two of us.”

You have to stop a moment, to blink away the wetness in your eyes.

“We could have visited a couple of nodes, wandered some of the compounds there. I know you would have enjoyed it.”

You sigh. “Perhaps if you were still here, I would have asked for your hand. Perhaps… we would be wed by now.” 

You pause. 

You dream, of what the ceremonies would have been like. Simple, but beautiful, decorated with martian flowers, like the ones she spoke of so fondly in her childhood home. She would have been dressed in gold, resplendent. And you in your full regalia. 

It’s a while before you speak again. 

You tell her about your year. 

About how Medea is still trying very hard to court you, much to your amusement. Her flirting is really not your style. 

You tell her about the new projects you have to oversee. How tired you are half the time, no ideas, no minds could ever compare. 

“There is none quite to brilliant as you, love.”

You tell her about the Empire, how new technologies for terraforming have been making it easier to expand, even in areas on the current worlds that couldn’t be altered before. You tell her, perhaps she would have been proud. 

You can see your home cephalon begin to stir again.

“I still miss you, Margulis. Every day.” 

_Diagnostics are complete, Executor._

“Yes, good.”

You bring the mask to your lips, pressing a gentle kiss to it. 

“Until next year.” you whisper, and you place the mask back into your drawer. 

==============================

“How do you fare today, Ballas?” Avantus asks, mild pity staining her features.

You are at a cafe today, a nice place overlooking a park of pale orange grass and twisted white trees; with high white walls inlaid with red and pink glass, meant for a more _particular_ customer. Your table sits on one of the balconies, and over the gold railings you can see people wandering below. Tea and a tiered tray of pastries and confections on the table between you. 

“I fare well. And you?” you reply. 

You’ve always liked Avantus, hence the semi-regular tea sessions, but you’d trust her about as far as you could throw her. 

“I am well, also.” she says, tossing a blue braid behind her shoulder. 

She wore simple clothes, for someone of her status, but always so intricate in the details. Plain dresses with rich embroidery creeping only at the shoulders. A mesh of silver chain drapes languidly across the deep plunge at her chest. In her hair were thin silver sticks, with jewelled chains dangling off the ends. 

“It’s that time of year again, isn’t it?” she asks, her voice soft. 

You sigh. “It is.”

“While I don’t truly know what you’ve gone through, I do feel for you.” she says, gentle as she can. “It must be agony to lose a loved one.”

You smile a sad smile. “It is”

“It’s been years, Ballas. I hope you’re able to move on.” she says. 

You shoot her a slight glare. 

“I don’t mean forget, I mean move on.” she says with a quirk of her lips, a half-smile. “Learn to live again. You’ve been burying yourself in more and more work as the years go by. We barely see you at social events anymore.”

You smile at her, a little more patronising that you’d like to let on. “I’m busy, and with the sentients snapping their little claws at us, do you think I have any time for such frivolities?”

Avantus sighs, shaking her head. “We only wish you well, Ballas.” 

You pick up your cup to take a sip, hoping your hands don’t visibly shake. 

You wait, long enough that the silence is about to be uncomfortable, and then you change the subject. 

It’s still a pleasant afternoon, spent in pleasant company, but there’s a scar across your heart and you don’t believe it will ever heal. 

==============================

It’s hot. 

Your eyes blink open. To the sight of a pearl white ceiling, a projection of silvery vines growing across slowly, and the underbellies of blue shadow birds fluttering by from branch to branch. 

It’s morning. You can still hear crex outside, which means you are awake at your usual time. 

But it is hot. 

You get up, the blanket falling onto the floor. The bed is soft enough that it doesn’t creak, but still the figure beside you stirs. She doesn’t wake, but mutters indistinctly. 

_Ah, yes._

You remember why you’re here. 

It doesn’t take you long to dress and silently leave the room, to find her home cephalon and ask for coffee. 

And then you hear a soft chuckle behind you. 

“Leaving so soon? I could get you breakfast.” Medea says, and you turn to look at her, still nude except for a sheer robe, leaning against the entryway to the kitchen. 

Her body was nice, perfectly symmetrical. She was tall, and she curved and billowed like a sail, attractive by all conventional standards, but her ego and her manner of speaking left you with a migraine half the time. 

She smiles, sauntering up to you and draping an arm over your shoulder. 

“I’m glad you finally came to me, Ballas.” she says, lips brushing against your ear. Her other hand is tracing lines across your chest. 

“Hmm.” you take the cup presented to you, take a sip. 

“Oh, Ballas darling, don’t be so cold. I know you enjoyed that as much as I did.”

You don’t even dignify that with a reply. 

She hops onto a nearby barstool, crossing her long legs and leaning a delicate arm onto the counter. She’s still smiling, not even hiding how proud she was of last night. 

“I suppose we’ll have to report this to the rest of the Seven.”

You quirk an eyebrow. “Report what?”

She grins, leaning onto a hand, letting the front of her robe fall open. “Our little trysts, our nights in… Our budding relationship-”

You can’t help it. You laugh.

She startles, but quickly recovers. 

“Of course, I understand if you want to keep this under wraps for a little longer but-”

“Medea, dear, sweet Medea.” you begin, a toothy grin curling across your face. 

You look at her and you see the barely held together composure, the realisation blooming across her features, the colour draining from her perfectly sculpted cheeks. 

“You think I want to continue this? To be in a _budding_ relationship?” you let out an amused bark, “With you?”

“I- What?” she sputters back.

“Do you really think your pathetic attempts at courting me was what led me to sleep with you? Do you really think it was your looks? Or perhaps your charm? Or, stars forbid, your personality?”

She stares at you in stunned ignominy. You could almost swear you could see a vein pop.

You grin wider. “Last night was not for you, dear Medea. Last night was an exercise in stress relief, it was honestly, just convenient.”

You finish your coffee, place the cup down and begin to walk away. 

But as you pass her, you lean over and say, “This won’t affect our work, will it? I don’t believe you’re that sort of petty.”

You wander off to the door, a house klyte greeting you as you pass them in the corridor.

You’re in good spirits for once, though you have a long and busy day.

==============================

There are times in your work where it gets overwhelmingly lonely. 

You look out at the perfect climate-controlled sky, suddenly hoping that it would rain. 

You remember the days, years back, when you would excuse yourself immediately when your daily work was done. You remember walking briskly, but not too briskly to your transport, to visit your love. Knowing that she was waiting for you, that she was going to pull you into her arms and you’d see her smile. 

Oh, that smile. You missed her smile the most. 

This was one of those days. 

Where the ache of grief would weigh so heavy, that you’d swear you could feel ghost-sensations of her hand in yours. 

It was days like these where you'd lock your study door, let the thoughts consume you for a moment, and breathe. 

You’d breathe, and you’d wonder again as you did the day you lost her, how it all went so wrong. 

There’s been a thought nagging at you recently, but you haven’t been willing to do it. You haven’t, and yet you find your feet taking you to your transport, you find yourself talking to the klyte to bring you to the Conservatory. 

You still aren’t willing to do this but you find yourself wandering the corridors, looking but not really, for an old friend. 

“Archivist Xenoph.” you say, standing in the doorway to his office. 

“Executor Ballas. To what do I owe this honour?” he says, standing to greet you. 

He has really aged over these years. His hair is now more silver than black, and you can see the creases on his face where smiles and sorrow have set in. But his eyes still have that familiar blue glow. 

“I came to ask a favour.” you find yourself saying.

“Of course, anything for the Council.” he replies, smiling. 

“Not for the Council.” you say, “For me.”

His eyebrows furrow slightly. He gestures to the chair in front of him. “Please, Executor, do sit. What may I do for you?”

You take a seat. “I’d like a copy of the files. From Margulis’ trial, and the interrogations too.”

You can see his face soften and part of you is disgusted, more at yourself than him.

“I can have those sent to you, yes.” he says, and then heaves a heavy sigh. 

It’s a few seconds of silence before he speaks again. “It’s almost that time of year again, isn’t it?”

You nod. “It will be the anniversary of her death in about three weeks.”

“I’m sorry, Ballas, the pain you must still feel- I cannot begin to imagine.”

You sigh.

“She loved you. Very much.” he says, smiling sadly. “And as her interrogator and as an Archivist, I could see that she was trying to protect you as much as you tried to protect her.”

Something sharp feels like it’s pricked your heart.

He sets down the tablet he holds, the files he was organising still half labelled. 

“It feels like it wasn’t enough.” you say, quietly. The Archivist was your friend, at the very least he would not judge. 

“We all feel that, don’t we?” he says, lacing his fingers. “We feel as if we can never do enough for the people we care most about. And perhaps what is most unfortunate is that we rarely ever know if they think it is enough.”

“It is usually in moments of anger, in moments of fear and sorrow, that we can do great harm to the people we love most.” He huffs a quiet sigh. “But perhaps what we don’t realise more often, is the moments that we believe that we are helping, that we are doing what is right, and in doing that, we hurt them even more than a word said in rage could ever do.”

He looks at you like he could see into your soul, and he continues “I believe we all do things and we want to do things that are right, be it for us or for the greater good. And it can be a challenge to step away from that, to see the harm we cause as well.”

“You have done what you needed to, Ballas. It may not have been what was right in her eyes, but you did what you had to. And I believe that in this circumstance, she knew and she saw that too.”

You nod, it has been a long time since you felt so young. “I suppose.” you reply, but it feels hollow.

He smiles, and you get up to leave. 

“I will send the files over tonight.”

“Thank you, Archivist. Xenoph.”

“Ballas.”

“Yes?”

“Remember that. You did what you had to do.”

You nod.

And you go. 

==============================

Today is the day again. 

You walk home, not bothering with a transport this time. You think you could use the fresh air. 

You walk through the gardens that dot the Executor’s district, white trees with silver leaves that reach for the Martian sky, golden grasses that sway and dance with the mild breeze. You see crex chirping in the boughs above. Fluttering about each other in ignorant bliss. 

You walk the streets of paved stone. Transports hover past, some slowing just for the passengers to bow at you as they pass. 

You reach your abode, the main gate swirling and unlocking at your presence, your house klyte greets you as you enter, as does your home cephalon. 

You walk up the curved stairs. 

“Executor Ballas, sir, is there anything we can get you?” the klyte says, hands clasped in front of him. 

“No, just return to you duties, Demeil.”

“Yes, sir.” he replies with a bow, and scurries off.

You approach your study, and the doors hiss open, the black and blue frame like woven metal rope shimmers as you pass through. 

You shut all the blinds, lock the study door, and sit at your desk in silence. 

You listen to the shift of air through the ventilation, you listen as your klytes busy themselves with cleaning downstairs. 

They know better than to bother you on this day.

“Shawil.” you call out, and on your desk you see your home cephalon stir. 

The prism of blue light pulses as she talks. 

_Yes, Executor. Shall I run the annual diagnostics tests today?_

“Yes. The usual.”

_Of course. It’s will take approximately two hours, as is standard. Is there anything I may do for you before, sir?_

“No, nothing. Just begin.”

_Yes, Executor. Right away…_

There’s a moment of silence before she speaks. 

_Executor, I hope you have a pleasant conversation._

“I hope so too.” you sigh. 

_I shall run the diagnostics now, give me some time, sir._

You watch as the prism fades into a ring of undulating light.

You reach onto your table, for the small hammer beside the bell, and you strike it. Once, then again, and again. Five times now, at even intervals.

You take the mask out of the drawer again, pressing the cold metal to your lips. You turn it about in your hands, watching the gold detail catch the light and glimmer.

“Margulis…” you whisper.

You place the mask on the desk, next to the bell. 

You breathe a shaky breath and reach into your desk drawer, beyond a secret compartment, for a device you’ve hidden there for over a year. Today is that day you retrieve it again. 

You click the record function, and as you manually place and scan files into it, you speak, practiced and cold, a mix of anger and sorrow and the hope of redemption beginning to pulse through your veins.

You begin.

“It is with the greatest of risk that I commit this recording.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! It's been an absolute joy to write this fic and i'm glad that you've gotten this far.  
> If you enjoyed it, leave me a comment or a kudos! I tried my best with this and I'm just happy it's all done :3


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